


And There's a Hand My Trusty Friend

by Who_Needs_Reality



Series: just trying to break through, trying to make you mine [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Like 70-30 fluff to angst, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 19:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13254669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Who_Needs_Reality/pseuds/Who_Needs_Reality
Summary: He sighs dramatically. “Can’t believe you’re not gonna let me kiss you untilnext year.”That sends a sudden, sharp jolt of sadness through Clarke, the realisation that they’re going to be spending another day spent pretending that she’s nothis; it means ushering in their first year together… by, well,notbeing together.Or, {NYE fluff where Bellamy and Clarke are together, but since they're keeping it a secret from their friends, they run into an unforeseen complication.}





	And There's a Hand My Trusty Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, I've come crawling back after months of nothingness with this Trash Fic^tm. In my defence, I am currently working on a very long WIP that I'm very excited about and that will ///hopefully/// see the light of day before S5 drops, but until then, I wrote this as a nice NYE break from that. And yes I'm aware I missed both NYE and New Year's Day but you're not my dad I do what I want.
> 
> Also, this is in my mind the sequel to Choking On Your Alibis aka my Jealous!Clarke fic and whilst you totally don't need to have read that for this fic to make sense, I recommend you do anyway because I'm a slut for validation on my work. 
> 
> Finally, this drabble was cobbled together mainly between the hours of 00:00 and 04:00 and is both unedited and unbetaed so 1) this took on a lot more angst and than initially intended though fear not, this is still fluffy garbage at its core, and 2) this is likely riddled with SPG errors etc., for which I preemptively beg your pardon.
> 
> Title from Auld Lang Syne because I'm super creative.
> 
> Alright, on with the fic.

In some ways, dating Bellamy Blake has shaken her life up. She gets to tell the cashier that she’s buying both kinds of peanut butter because her _boyfriend_ likes variety. She gets to feel his hand resting lightly but firmly on her knee under the table at her mother’s galas. She gets to furl up against his chest on the couch at night and stretch her head up enough that he can kiss the crown of it. Clarke loves it, loves the warm happy glow that comes with remembering he’s _hers,_ and she’s _his,_ and they’re _together_.

Still, it’s not like everything’s different. They still live together, even if they share Bellamy’s room now. They still bicker about what to watch on Netflix, they still have to nag each other to go to sleep on time when they’re carried away with projects. And of course, around their friends, they still act like nothing’s changed. Because to their friends, nothing has.

Clarke wouldn’t have minded if they did know, but Bellamy had asked her if they could keep it quiet.

“Not…I’m not trying to keep this, _us_ , a secret,” he had scrubbed a hand over his face. “This isn’t me trying to covertly maintain my bachelor status.”

Clarke had smiled wryly at him. “It would be a lot easier to do that by just _not_ dating me.”

He’d peeked at her through the gaps between his fingers. “Yeah,” he’d snorted, “no. Fuck that. I’m just suggesting that we can be open with the _general public_ about the fact that you’re -- you’re my girlfriend,” and Clarke’s smile had widened when she’d seen how he’d ducked his head on a grin at the words, “and obviously you can tell your mom if you want to. But we should probably have some time to figure out what _we_ ,” he’d run a thumb absently over the back of her hand, “look like. Without our well-meaning but overly enthusiastic friends putting a ton of pressure on us and starting Twitter hashtags about us or something.”

“Pretty sure Jasper’s already had one of those going for a while.” She’d looked down at his hand when she squeezed it. “But yeah. I’m okay with that if that’s what you want."

So yeah. It’s a bit surreal sometimes -- she’ll spend the afternoon on a lunch date with Bellamy, holding his hand, kissing him, seeing that warm smile light up his face and send a funny feeling through her chest, and then she’ll swing by the coffee shop where Raven will be ribbing her for pining after Bellamy and “acting all pathetic and mopey because you’re scared he won’t wanna make out with you even though he totally does.”

Still, Clarke mostly doesn’t let it bother her -- she  _gets_ it, she does. The way their friends work, she and Bellamy getting together would be an _event_. She knows they don’t mean anything by it, but the constant ribbing and sly remarks are overwhelming enough when they think she and Bellamy aren’t together -- she can only imagine the onslaught of commentary she’d be subjected to if her friends found out that she and Bellamy are a couple. Rationally, she knows Bellamy’s request for secrecy makes perfect sense. She just wishes she could ignore the niggling discomfort that lodges itself in the pit of her stomach whenever they’re hanging out at movie night and Bellamy makes sure never to sit directly next to her on the couch to ensure they don’t end up snuggling, or when they’re at a bar and she can’t kiss him, can’t touch him at all aside from a brief squeeze of his hand under the table away from Raven’s eagle eyes and Jasper’s hyperactive insistence that “mom and dad should just get married already!”

She trusts Bellamy, she knows he’s not asking for this to give him an excuse to act like he’s still single or because he wants an easy way to cut and run, but--

In the smallest, darkest parts of her head, the parts left behind after the blow-ups with Finn and Lexa and her mom, there’s a lingering whisper that she can’t quite silence. _Maybe you just want him more than he wants you_ , it tells her, _after all,_ he’s _not the one that practically had a meltdown because he was jealous._ She tries to ignore it most of the time, and most of the time, it works. But still, it’s hard, sometimes, not to wonder if whatever it was that made  _both_ her previous significant others cheat on her, whatever it is that renders her mother unable to discuss Clarke’s chosen career path without a downturned mouth and a bitter sigh… if it won’t insinuate itself into Bellamy’s vision and drive him away too.

The good news is that nothing chases away the ugly thoughts like he does -- there’s no room for them when he smiles at her when he doesn’t think she can see him, when he can’t help but snort at one of her dumb puns, or when he kisses her a little longer and more deeply than strictly necessary when they leave for work in the morning, murmuring against her mouth how much he’s going to miss her.

She smiles as she thinks about it, burying her face in his shoulder so he can’t see her.

“Tired?” he asks, moving his arm slightly so he can rub her scalp with his fingers the way she likes.

“Maybe I’m just bored of this documentary,” she mumbles, but she knows he can hear the laughter in her voice.

“Well, tough. It’s my turn to choose.”

“Hey, at least you _like_ my choices.”

“ _Everyone_ likes the Great British Bake Off,” he complains, giving the end of her hair a little tug then quickly soothing her head with a vigorous rub before she really has time to feel the sting, “that’s hardly a fair comparison.”

She rolls her eyes but burrows closer into his side, her grin widening almost against her will when he periodically drops kisses on her hair or nudges her upwards so he can peck her on the mouth. Clarke had always known he was affectionate, but it was never like this before. It’s like he’s unable to stop himself from touching her at any time-- not that she’s complaining -- they’re not with their friends.

She must drift off for a while because she wakes up in her bed slightly groggy.

“Morning Princess.”

Clarke glances up and smiles. Bellamy’s leaning up on his arm, looking down at her with a soft smile that she’s a big fan of. His shirt is off -- which she’s also a big fan of -- and he’s wearing the plaid pajama pants he keeps at her house.

“Is it actually morning?” she mumbles.

“Nah, I was just teasing. You passed out in spite of the riveting viewing material.”

“Turns out even documentaries about Roman agricultural practices can’t keep me awake when I’m tired.” She stretches herself like a cat, working out the stiffness. “Did you carry me here from the couch?” she asks.

“No, the house fairies did,” he dodges when she pokes at his side, “ _yes_ , I carried you.”

Clarke drapes an arm around his waist, grinning.

He tries to keep his expression serious as he looks at her, but Clarke can see the corners of his mouth twitching in spite of himself. “What?”

“Just. Enjoying the image.”

Bellamy snorts. “Of what, me carrying you?”

“Yup,” she pops the _p_. “Can you blame me for being a princess when I’ve got my own personal Prince Charming right here?”

“Oh my god,” he groans, “that’s a terrible, _terrible_ line. Like, that’s low even for you. And your lines are fucking awful.”

“And yet,” Clarke kisses his collarbone, “you’re blushing.”

“Am not.”

“Uh huh.” She lets her teeth graze the tip of his ear, which is, in fact, turning red.

His eyes darken at that, and he flips them over so she’s pinned under his waist, and pretty soon, well... they’re done talking.

*

If you’d asked her normally, Clarke would have probably said that she doesn’t think New Year’s Eve is a particularly big deal. She may have dropped out of med school, but she’s still scientifically-minded enough to think that the use of January 1st to mark the coming of a new year is an arbitrary social construct, and whilst she appreciates the _idea_ of a day that becomes a worldwide “fresh start,” she doesn’t really believe it heralds in anything new. She’s stopped bothering with resolutions because her track record by way of sticking to them is appalling, and whilst she appreciates the merit of a designated night to party with her friends, it’s not like they _wouldn’t_ manage to party without it.

So it makes no sense, the light flutter of anticipation she feels when she thinks about it. She’s not completely dense, she knows Bellamy is the reason for it, but it still doesn’t _really_ add up. They’ve been together three, nearly four months -- a substantial enough amount of time, but not an anniversary or anything -- so despite Jasper repeatedly telling her to “seize the day and start the year by _finally_ making a move on Bellamy," it’s not like the day’s going to mark a milestone for them or anything. It’s not even the first holiday they’ve had together -- they spent a quiet, perfect Thanksgiving at home with turkey and a toast to say “fuck you, Columbus,” and unbeknownst to their friends, Bellamy spent Christmas with Clarke’s family and not, in fact, with Lincoln and Octavia in Colorado as he had told everyone he would. Compared to those two, New Year’s Eve is practically a non-event; if anything it’s an indicator of the end of the holiday season. Still, she can’t help feeling a ridiculous, stupid, disgustingly sweet warmth at the idea that she’ll go into this year _with Bellamy_ , really with him. The idea puts a spring in her step, has her humming a little while she gets ready.

“Do I have to wear this?” he yells from the bathroom. “Bowties make me feel like I’m wearing a collar.”

“That’s a costume for another night babe!”

“Seriously!” he whines.

Clarke rolls her eyes as she adjusts the beaded headband around her carefully curled hair. “It’s a Gatsby-themed party, you big baby, just go with it.”

“It would make _way_ more sense to wait two years to do a Gatsby theme,” he grumbles, “then we’d at least be entering the twenties and it’d be thematically appropriate."

She turns around to tick him off but then her mouth goes dry because  _Jesus_ if Bellamy in formalwear isn’t a sight.

“Have you seen my gel?” he’s saying as he emerges from the bathroom. “I need to slick my hair back--”

“Don’t,” she says quickly.

He blinks at her owlishly for a moment. “I thought I was going for maximum twenties authenticity.”

Her eyes track the way a few of his curls brush the tops of his cheeks. “Yeah, well. You don’t want to overdo it.”

There’s a smirk blooming across his face now as realisation dawns. “That right?” He moves closer to her, his eyes dragging slowly up her form.

Her throat bobs. “Yeah. You just want to, uh,” her voice falters as he moves even closer, absently trailing his fingertip down the curve of her neck, “sort of _suggest_ the theme. Subtly. As you can see,” she steps back a little -- not _far_ back, but just enough that he can see all of her -- my outfit's not entirely period appropriate either.”

His eyes rake over her once more, taking in the form-fitting dress that’s just a little too high-hemmed and a little too low-cut and a little too tight to fairly be labeled “flapper girl.”

“Hmm,” he drawls, making the breath catch in her throat a little as his arms move up to snake around her waist, “I’d go so far as to say it’s distinctly _in_ appropriate.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she retorts, her own voice dropping low as she winds her arms around his neck.

Bellamy grins in a way that can only be described as rakish, dipping his head so close to her face that she can feel his breath, warm against her cheek.

“Careful,” she chides him, though the wavering of her voice ruins the effect just a little, “I don’t want you messing up my lipstick.”

He pouts at her. “But you look so _good_.”

“And I want to  _stay_ looking good at least until we’ve made our entrance. Think you can hold off until a bit later tonight?”

He sighs dramatically. “Can’t believe you’re not gonna let me kiss you until _next year_.”

That sends a sudden, sharp jolt of sadness through Clarke, the realisation that they’re going to be spending the evening with their friends, and as fun as she’s sure it’ll be, it means another day spent pretending that she’s not _his_ ; it means ushering in their first new year together… by, well, _not_ being together.

Bellamy notices something’s wrong, immediately steps back moving his hands to her shoulders, his expression quickly shifting into one of concern. “Hey,” he asks, scanning her face, “you okay?”

She musters up a smile, shaking off the sadness and chastising herself for being ridiculous. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just… we’re gonna be late if we don’t leave soon.”

He looks at her for another long moment. “I love you.”

The smile she wears is more real this time. “I love you too.”

He cups her face and presses his lips to her forehead, just for a moment. “Okay,” he says, picking up their jackets from the bed. “You good to go?”

She takes his hand when he offers it, squeezing it extra tight as though she can make the warmth of his touch last through the night.

*

The party _is_ fun. Jasper hands her a drink as soon as she walks in, and Raven wolf-whistles when she sees Clarke’s dress, and the whole atmosphere is as fizzy and sparkling as the champagne that’s waiting to be popped. It’s not even like she has to avoid Bellamy the whole night -- in fact, their friends would probably find it more weird if they _didn’t_ see Bellamy and Clarke talking to each other -- and it’s always nice to see all the people she loves.

Raven corners her about an hour before midnight, god knows how many drinks in and festooned in a glittery hat, gold beads, several glowstick bracelets and a pair of cardboard 2018 sunglasses.

“You know,” she says, slinging an arm around Clarke, “tonight’s your _night_.”

“Is it?” she replies, amused.

“Yuh-huh,” Raven takes another slurp of her margarita, “see it’s gonna be a _New Year_.”

“Just yesterday you were complaining about the fact that there’s no actual astronomical significance to the holiday whatsoever.”

Raven tuts. “Whatever. But whole new year, whole new you right? And since _he_ ” she thrusts her wine glass in Bellamy’s direction, the red liquid sloshing dangerously, “is now single, it’s your chance to finally stop being a headass and make a move!”

Clarke smiles tightly, patting Raven on the arm. “I’ll bear that in mind,” she assures her.

Raven makes a kind of whooping sound and wanders off to find Monty and the karaoke machine. But Clarke’s left wondering how she managed to complete overlook a crucial detail of the night -- Bellamy’s whole statute of secrecy means that, well.

She won’t get to kiss him at midnight.

It’s about the pettiest, most insignificant, obscure thing in the world to think about. In the grander scheme of things, it literally could not matter less. It’s a tiny, infinitesimal, _negligible_ little hiccup on an otherwise perfectly enjoyable evening, and it absolutely should not be leaving a funny taste in her mouth. It’s not like she won’t get to kiss him at all -- she’s like ninety-eight percent sure they’re going to be making out _hard_ the second they get home. And it’s not like New Year’s kisses are actually that special or anything. Sure, it would be _nice_ to kiss her boyfriend as the clock strikes midnight, but all her friends would just freak out and make things awkward, and besides, it’s not like there’d really be time for much more than a peck on the lips anyway before they’d be caught up in wishing everyone and popping champagne.

It’s really not important, and it shouldn’t even be a _thing_.

But Clarke being Clarke -- well, she makes it a thing. Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s months of residual anxiety, but by the time it’s twenty minutes to midnight, she’s almost unbearable aware of the fact that most of the rest of her friends are all easily paired off -- Raven invited Zeke, Jasper brought Maya, Miller and Monty, and Murphy and Emori -- and Clarke doesn’t feel like awkwardly hovering around exchanging dry cheek kisses with Harper or Riley or someone.

 _This won’t be forever_ , she tells herself, taking another swig of her drink, _it’s just while you guys find your feet in this relationship_.

It doesn’t really work though. She finds herself deliberately ducking away from whichever part of the room Bellamy happens to be in, making sure they can’t accidentally make eye contact. Somehow, absurdly, she _misses_ him, and she kind of wants for the night to be over and them to be home so that she can crawl into his lap and imagine she’ll never let go.

Since that’s not a viable option, around the time Monty yells “twenty minutes!” she slips out onto the fire escape, thankful that the party is by now charged enough that she doesn’t think anyone notices. The sharp coolness of the air helps, cutting through a little of the fog of wine and wallowing, allowing her to think more clearly. It’s ridiculous and out-of-character for her to be getting so bent out of shape over such a noncommittal detail in what is -- and after just a few months it’s both kind of terrifying and kind of awesome to be able to call it this -- the best relationship she’s ever been in. Clarke squeezes her eyes shut for a second, grips the cold iron railing. Bellamy is one of the most selfless and undemanding people she’s ever met. He’s made this one request and she can swallow her quibbles and stick to it. _It’s time for resolutions, right?_ she thinks, lowering herself carefully down to sit on a step, shivering a little at the cold press of metal beneath her, _well then -- my first new year’s resolution is to make Bellamy Blake happy because I love him and he goddamn deserves it_.

It’s inching closer to midnight out, and Clarke figures she might as well stay out here until just after the countdown. Things will start to wrap up soon enough after that, and it’ll give her time to compose herself enough and enjoy the rest of the party before going home with Bellamy.

It’s a good plan. Except then the door opens and she looks up and. Well, he’s standing right there, looking a little harried before his eyes land on her.

“There you are,” he says, exhaling in relief.

“Hi,” she says, “I was just…” she gestures vaguely at the air around her, “getting some air, you know.”

When he doesn’t respond, Clarke glances up at him. His expression is soft, careful as he studies her.

“Clarke,” he says, and this time it’s low roughness of his voice that makes her shiver, “what’s going on?”

If it was anyone else, she’d shrug it off. If it was anyone else, she’d shake her head and say “I’m fine,” and smile before changing the subject.

If it was anyone else, they’d believe her.

“I just needed to clear my head,” she says, going for a light tone that she doubts she achieves. “You know me -- I was just stressing myself out over things.”

He clambers to sit on the step below hers. “What things?” he asks, still gentle.

“It’s really stupid,” she warns him.

He smiles a small smile. “Try me.”

“I was, um. I guess I kind of started overthinking the whole ‘who-to-kiss-at-midnight’ situation and decided to hide out for a while so that I just wouldn’t have to deal with it.” She offers him an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you come out here.”

“You didn’t _make_ me. I wanted to find you.” He returns her smile briefly but then his face falls serious again. “What is this really about babe?”

He reaches for her hand and she turns her palm over so they can lace their fingers together. Clarke fixes her gaze on where they’re linked, his touch grounding her, giving her something to focus on.

“Sometimes,” she says, speaking slowly so as to keep her voice steady, “this whole… the secrecy thing is sort of difficult to navigate at times, I guess? Don’t get me wrong, I get why you want it; I’m glad we did it -- it could have all been really overwhelming without it. But…”

He just waits, running his thumb in slow, soothing circles in the crease of her thumb.

“It just feels strange sometimes. I mean, in a lot of ways we’ve moved so fast. We moved in together before we even dated,” she points out, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter. “For most of the time,” she plows on, “it’s -- god, it’s the most  _real_ thing in my life. It’s like I keep looking around feeling so freaking lucky and thinking  _this can’t be happening_. But then suddenly we’re hiding it and -- well, it’s _not_ happening.”

Bellamy’s hand spasms a little as he tightens his grip on her hand, and she can see his profile go rigid.

“Clarke…” he rasps after a moment. “God, why -- how long have you been feeling like this?”

“It’s not like some huge unspoken burden!” she assures him, “it’s just. Sometimes it hits me and it gets a little tough, that’s all. I’m dealing with it, I promise.”

Bellamy shifts to look at her, and his smile is sad. “Brave Princess,” he murmurs, “you’re always trying to _deal with stuff_ on your own, aren’t you?”

“Like you’re any better,” she sighs, leaning down to rest her head against his shoulder. He senses the angle is awkward, turns around enough to tug at her gently until he’s maneuvered it so that she’s sitting in his lap. She closes her eyes as she leans back into the warmth of his chest. “You always carry the whole fucking world on your shoulders and I just feel so stupid that I can’t even do this one thing you asked for because of--”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says. “Slow down, okay? I’m not mad at you. I feel like you think I’m pissed at you for feeling whatever it is you’re feeling and… Jesus, you should know I’m not, okay? Me asking to keep us quiet wasn’t some kind of caveat to our relationship, you know that right?”

He actually sounds upset, and Clarke feels a pang of guilt. “It’s not that,” she says, “it’s not your fault. It’s just… after Finn and Lexa and dropping out and all my  _stuff_ it just--” she presses her lips together for a moment, “sometimes it feels like all I do is disappoint people. And then I’m with you and you make me so happy, and fuck, I even think I make you happy, and everything is wonderful, but there’s a part of me that can’t help waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like you’re going to wake up and realise I’m not worth it or that I don’t make you happy and everything’s going to blow up in our faces.” It’s difficult for her to get the words out, it’s not the kind of spiel that comes easily to her.

“Clarke,” he says, “God. I’m so sorry--”

“No!” she bursts, “don’t -- I don’t _want_ you to be sorry, okay? You haven’t done anything wrong, it’s not fair to ask you to constantly make allowances for me because I’m not dealing with my baggage well.”

“And that’s fine,” he says, and he sounds a little frustrated now, “but I want you to talk to me about this stuff, alright? You know full well we’ve both got baggage, and we’re both going to have to make compromises and allowances down the line. But none of those compromises should make either of us miserable.”

She sighs, but slowly she feels the tension ebbing from her shoulders, the tightness in her chest uncoiling bit-by-bit. “I know,” she admits, “and I’ve not been miserable this whole time, I promise. Fuck, I’m happier than I’ve been for a long while. But yeah,” she worries her lip, “you know you’re my best friend, I can talk to you about anything. It’s just hard for me to say stuff that I think is gonna hurt you.”

He has the gall to chuckle at that. “Sorry,” he grins when she elbows him, “it’s just if I had a penny for every time you’ve called me a _total ass_ or a _fucking idiot_ or something similar I’m pretty sure I could pay off my student loans.”

She scowls without heat. “It’s not hard when you’re being a _dick_ ,” she grumbles, pretending she’s not mollified when he hugs her closer to his chest.

“Hey,” he says growing serious again, though this time he sounds more thoughtful than worried, “you know it scares me too, right? For the record, you're already better than anyone I could have imagined having in my life. You're my best friend, I love you -- I want to make you happy, and I hate the idea that I could say or do something that would make you feel otherwise. But I think the thing that would hurt me most is if you let me hurt you and didn’t call me on it.”

She wets her lip, nods. “I think -- yeah, it’s the same for me. It’s the same for me, Bell.” From the corner of her eye, Clarke can see his cheek lift in the lopsided smile he gets whenever she uses the nickname.

“You and me,” he says roughly, “we tell each other the truth. It’s what we do. Maybe sometimes it’ll hurt a little bit and we’ll probably get pissed at each other and argue a million times. But it’ll make us stronger too. You don’t have to take it alone, and neither do I. The good, the bad, the ugly, we can take it all on. Together.”

He’s half-lapsed into what she calls his “speech voice” and it makes her smile and her heart thud with how much she loves him. “Together,” she echoes, twisting in his lap so she can hug him, bury her face in his neck and breathe him in. “You really think we’ll argue a _million_ times?” asks, her voice muffled by his skin.

He snorts. “I’m sorry, have you met us?”

She grins. “You know what that means though.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Lots and lots of make-up sex.”

He chokes on a laugh, and she doesn’t think she imagines the heat in his eyes when he pulls back to look at her. “You know, you’re kind of making me want to pick fights just for fun.”

It’s her turn to snort. “Please, like you weren’t doing that already.”

Bellamy’s answering grin is boyish. “No comment.”

From inside, Jasper yells “ONE MINUTE GUYS!”

Bellamy gets up, helping Clarke up with him. “Come on.” He offers her his hand.

She’s about to take it, but then pausing realising what it is he’s suggesting. “Are you sure?” she asks, eyes wide. “You don’t need to do this just because I--”

“I’m not,” he promises, a smile spreading across his features as slowly and warmly as a sunrise, “I don’t take orders from you anyway.”

Clarke swats at him and he catches her hand.

“I’m gonna lay it out here, Clarke, I think I’m done figuring stuff out and taking precautions. I’m glad we took the time to make sure we knew what we were doing, that we weren’t going to implode. But now I really--” he ducks his head and to Clarke’s delight she sees him  _blushing_ , “I think we’re gonna last. And this,” he kisses her fingers, “has already become one of the best parts of my life. So if you’re okay with it, then I think I’m ready to let _them_ ” he jerks his head towards where their friends have started counting back from thirty, “in on it.”

Clarke stares at him, her heart and her breath doing stupid things that make her feel a little weightless. “You’re sure.”

He reaches up to caress her face just briefly, a brush of his thumb down her cheek. “It was one of my New Year’s Resolutions,” he says, all somber.

Her own face cracks into a beam at that. “Well then,” she squeezes his hand in her own, following him inside as the chants start.

_Ten!_

_Nine!_

“We can’t have you breaking your very first resolution.”

_Eight!_

_Seven!_

Their friends are practically thrumming with euphoria around them as they join in the countdown, and Clarke feels a warmth settle deep in her chest.

_Six!_

_Five!_

_All my people_ , she thinks, smiling to herself, _my stupid, ridiculous, wonderful family._

_Four!_

_Three!_

Bellamy turns her so she’s looking up at him, into his eyes and into the next year, and all the years after that.

_Two!_

_One!_

Their lips collide and in that moment, the world melts away along with 2017. It’s just Bellamy and his mouth on hers and her hands in his hair and their hearts with each other, and Clarke pulls him closer, smiling when he laughs against her mouth.

When they break apart, they’ll hear Jasper cut off his rendition of Auld Lang Syne with a choked scream as he points at them. They’ll hear Raven cry “fucking _finally_!” and see Miller raise a champagne flute to them and have Murphy and Emori comparing bets about when they'd get together and find themselves pummelled by a barrage of questions and exclamations. When they break apart, there’ll be hugging and screaming and a general riot of the giddiness that accompanies the unmarked canvas of a brand new year. There’ll be time for all of that, when they break apart, they’ll deal with it all together.

But they don’t break apart just yet. They don’t need to, after all -- they’ve got all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my Hot Mess^tm, and if you enjoyed it, comments/kudos would go a long way in proving my tragic lack of sleep hasn't been in vain!


End file.
